


until you can't carry on

by hairbearstare



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Boxing & Fisticuffs, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 02:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13331577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hairbearstare/pseuds/hairbearstare
Summary: The MacManus brothers, age sixteen, growing up in Ireland.





	until you can't carry on

**Author's Note:**

> I got inspired by another fic on here (can't for the life of me remember which one), but it had a part about Connor being a bare knuckle boxer in it, which I could NOT get out of my head. So I had to write about it, of course.

The MacManus brothers grew up on a muddy spit of land outside of Galway. It might have once been farmland, but was chopped up, divided and sold off as housing some time ago. So there it was, an ugly house sitting on a bit of mud and grass, a lovely bog not too far away. It was a twenty minute drive to the shops and the pub, longer if you wanted to get anywhere worthwhile. Connor and Murphy, being freshly sixteen, didn't have a car, so relied on bicycles to get everywhere, which took twice as long as a car, if you were going fast.

They tried to ask their Ma to borrow the car, hinted that maybe they could use one of their own when they turned sixteen, and had gotten laughed at. “Ye think I can afford a fuckin' car for ye?” she'd said, “I can barely afford to keep a fuckin' roof over yer heads, ya fuckin' ingrates!”

She hit them over their heads with a wooden spoon then. They dropped it pretty quickly.

So they biked everywhere—school, friends' places, into town. It was a bit of a pain the arse, but they managed pretty well. It wasn't like anyone else their age had a car, except those with exceptionally wealthy parents; and they were cunts anyways, so fuck it.

Being sixteen, they started to realize the importance of money as well. It wasn't like their Ma would give them an allowance, so they had to come up with other schemes to make beer and cigarette money. They tried to do it the old fashioned way, with Connor getting a job washing dishes, and Murphy trying to sell kitchen knives door-to-door, but it didn't really stick. They lasted a good couple months, though.

Murphy started getting suspicious when after that, Connor still seemed to have an endless supply of cash on him.

“Ye aren't robbin' people are ye, Conn?” Murphy asked one night as they were smoking cigarettes out their bedroom window.

“O'course not,” Connor scoffed.

“Sellin' drugs, then?”

“Nah. Ma taught us better than that.” Connor rolled his eyes. “Nothin' illegal, Murph, trust me.”

“Then why won't ye fuckin' _tell_ me?” Murphy growled, giving his brother a hard shove with his shoulder. “Where's the fuckin' money comin' from?”

“Oi! Calm down!” Connor said in his best offended-yet-placating voice, snatching the smoke out of Murphy's hand and taking a long drag. “It's nothin' to worry about. A little cash saved, a couple jobs for a couple people, ye know—”

Murphy smacked Connor upside his head. “Fine. Be all mysterious, then, see if I care.”

“Murph—”

“Fuck off.”

He flopped down on the bed on his side of the room, facing the wall—he was definitely not sulking. Connor was _allowed_ to have secrets, sure. He just wasn't supposed to keep them from Murphy.

 

-

 

Murphy being pissed at Connor never lasted long. They went about their routine as usual, but Murphy was keeping a close eye on his brother. He didn't act much different, except that he always had money on him to buy beers on the way home from school. He also slipped out of their room in the middle of the night now, when he thought Murphy was asleep, and slipped back in hours later, before he thought Murphy would wake up.

Fucking mysterious bullshit.

Connor also seemed to be covered in bruises all the time now, and he swore he had no idea where they came from. It pissed Murphy off, because they were twins and weren't supposed to keep things from each other.

One night after a little bit of drinking, after they had both laid down to sleep, after Connor quietly sneaked out the window again, Murphy decided to follow him. He kept a safe distance on his bike, watching Connor's dark shape in the distance twist down the muddy back roads. It was a good half hour down the roads that Connor turned into what looked like an old warehouse of some sort, all stone and no windows.

Drugs. He knew it. Sneaky motherfucker.

Murphy abandoned his bike in a bush, and pulled his coat closer. He didn't see which door Connor had entered the building from, but there was a big fucker standing by one of the side doors like he was guarding it. Murphy tried to stand up taller, tried to make himself look older than sixteen, walk with confidence.

“Ye got money, boy-o?”

“Uh,” Murphy faltered. Not really the question he was expecting. But what exactly _was_ he expecting, trying to enter some shady warehouse?

“Money. Ye'll need it in there.”

Murphy dug around in his pants, pulled out twenty quid, held it up to the guard.

The guy rolled his eyes. “That'll do,” he said, and waved Murphy inside.

Upon entering, Murphy was hit with a blue cloud of cigarette smoke, and a burst of heat—and the _noise_. Cheers, boos, screaming, from so many people crowded into the one large, open room. The floor was sticky with something, and the room smelled like smoke, sweat, and blood. Murphy pushed through the crowd, mostly older men, taller than he was, until he could see what the fuck was actually going on.

Boxing. Bare knuckle, from the looks of it. And there, at the edge of the crowd, left hand taped, lip a little bloody, was his fucking brother. Connor. Murphy couldn't help but laugh. So this was where Connor was making all his fucking mysterious money.

Murphy pushed his way back through the crowd, to the guy taking money off people, writing down bets. “Put twenty on the small one.”

“The MacManus boy? Ye sure? To be honest, he's probably gonna get his arse beat by ol' Flanagan there.” The bookie pointed to the muscly, shirtless black-haired son-of-a-bitch standing opposite to Connor.

“I'm sure.” Murphy grinned, and went back to watching.

Connor peeled his shirt off, looking tan under the orange warehouse lights. He was definitely small compared to his opponent, but if Murphy knew Connor—and he did—he wasn't too concerned.

They circled each other for a bit, and Murphy watched as Connor's eyes became laser focused, fists up, blocking anything that would come towards his face. Flanagan was the one to make the first move, sending out a (slow) punch, which Connor easily sidestepped. Connor's boot came out, lightning quick, scraped down Flanagan's shin, stepped on his toes with an audible snap.

Dirty bastard. Murphy couldn't help but grin as Connor took the opportunity the punch the guy square in the jaw, again and again, until the guy came to and landed a solid blow into Connor's ribs. Murphy winced. That couldn't have felt good. Connor kicked at Flanagan's ankle, missed, and Flanagan got another hit in Connor's stomach.

Fuck.

Connor stumbled a bit, wind knocked out of him—that big fucker sure could hit hard apparently—but held his footing, landed another hit on the guy's temple. Flanagan stumbled and Connor, quick as he was, landed more punches to his head, stomach, wherever he could reach, just fucking wailed on him.

Shockingly—or not so shockingly to Murphy—that big fucker Flanagan went down.

The crowd erupted in boos, just a couple of cheers. Murphy just laughed. He grabbed his winnings from the bookie with a little wink, and pushed through the crowd to run over to his brother.

“You dirty fucker,” Murphy cackled as he threw his arms around Connor. “Son of a bitch.”

Connor just stood there, shirtless, stunned, sweaty, a little blood on his face. “Murphy? What the fuck are ye doin' here?”

“Fuckin' followed ye, didn't I? Had to figure out what ye were doin' all these nights. Ye aren't as clever as ye seem to think, Conn.”

Connor just laughed, a surprised little sound, and wrapped his arms around Murphy, clapping him on the back. “Welcome to the fray, then, I suppose.”

“Now put a fuckin' shirt on, will ye?” Murphy growled into his twin's ear.

After Connor collected his money, and put on a shirt and coat, they went outside for some air that didn't reek like sweat. They lit a cigarette to share between them, Connor smoking a little more anxiously than normal. His fingers were twitchy around the filter, feet shuffling, eyes darting between Murphy and the ground.

“Well,” he said.

“Well,” Murphy said back. The silence between them wasn't awkward, they never were, but it was a little heavier than normal, more loaded. “Can I get in on this?”

“Certainly not,” Connor snorted. “Yer a dirty fighter, Murph, ye'd never win anythin' here.”

“The fuck I wouldn't,” Murphy huffed, sounding wounded. “I'm just as good as you are.”

“No fuckin' way, Murph. I won't allow it.”

“Won't allow it? Fuck off, Conn, ye ain't me _Ma_ , ye can't just tell me _no_ and expect me ta just listen ta ye.”

“This is why I didn't want ye comin' here, I _knew_ ye'd be like this. No fuckin' way, Murphy. It's not all fun n' games here, ye know. It can be dangerous.”

“Oh, dangerous is it? And that's why yer doin' it and I'm not _allowed_?”

“ _Yes_ , Murphy, that's exactly why!”

Murphy scoffed, snatched the cigarette out of Connor's mouth. He took a slow drag, and exhaled smoke as he sauntered closer to his brother until they were standing toe-to-toe. “What're ye afraid of, Connor?” He was right up in his twin's face, could feel his breath hitching. “Ye afraid I'd mess up me pretty face?”

“Murphy,” Connor whispered, staying very still.

Murphy grinned then, clasped both sides of Connor's face and planted a kiss right on that split lip, hard and quick. “Don't worry. Wasn't gonna do it, anyways.”

Connor huffed out a laugh as Murphy slapped one side of his face. “Yer a right bastard, ye know that?”

He shoved Murphy away, indignant.

“Made a couple hundred quid tonight. Been savin' up.” Connor was fidgeting with the sides of his coat. “Figured if I made enough, we could move to America in a few years.”

“America?” Murphy hummed. “Interestin' idea, that.”

“Aye,” Connor sighed. “Better work there apparently. Might be good for us.”

“Might be.”

They went home after that, biked the road home in silence.

 

-

 

Murphy didn't go to all Connor's fights. Sometimes they were further way, more than an hour's bike ride, and Murphy just couldn't be arsed to go that far. He went to a lot of them, though, always bet on his brother, got a little drunk on the free-flowing whiskey, had a grand old time. Connor never ended up too hurt, just some bruises, a couple black eyes, split lips. Never anything serious. Until he got reckless—cocky.

Connor broke his hand on a guy's face. Murphy could hear the sickening crack across the room. Connor's opponent took the opportunity to give him a boot to the chest, and down he went. The dirty bastard even kept on kicking Connor in the ribs and stomach until he was pulled away.

Murphy dragged his brother outside, angry, to assess the damage.

“Yer so fuckin' stupid. That was a stupid move, Conn. Gettin' slow already, are ye?”

“Fuck off,” Connor grunted through gritted teeth. He held his right hand out for his twin to look at anyways.

“Yer hand's broken,” Murphy mumbled, holding it gingerly. He felt a surge of anger, of protectiveness, helplessness.

“At least it's the right hand,” Connor chuckled wryly.

“Should get ye to a hospital.”

“It's fine, Murph. Just wrap it up real good, should heal a'right on its own.”

Murphy set his jaw tight, shoulders tense. “Ye think anything else is broken? Ribs, or whatever.”

“Nah,” Connor sighed. His hands were shaking.

“Get ye home, then.”

“Aye.”

 

-

 

For the first time since they were boys, Murphy crawled into Connor's bed.

They used to sleep in the same bed all the time. Murphy used to have terrible nightmares, and every time he woke up flailing, screaming, Connor would be there, holding him, shushing him. Their Ma didn't really approve, would huff about it every time she saw them laying together. “Ye'll have to grow out of that eventually, boys,” she'd say.

Maybe it was the broken bones that got Murphy thinking about mortality. It was stupid, but seeing his twin in pain, and being so helpless, scared him. Though he would never admit it out loud.

He laid down next to his brother, pushing him gently further towards the wall. He wrapped his arms around Connor, pressed his forehead against the back of his neck, breathed in deep.

“What're ye doin'?” Connor mumbled.

“Nothin',” Murphy answered. He could see the dark bruises on Connor's ribs starting to form, even in the darkness of their room. He lightly skated his fingers over the discolored flesh, trying to soothe, even though he knew Connor didn't need soothing.

“Were ye worried about me, Murph?”

“No,” Murphy grumbled. _Yes_ is what he meant, though his brother probably knew that already.

Connor reached back with his left arm, buried his fingers in Murphy's hair, tugging and stroking at the same time. “Murph,” he sighed. “M'fine, ye know.”

“I know.”

Connor made a small humming noise in his chest, let go of Murphy's head, brought his knuckles to his lips. “Can hear ye thinkin' from here. Nothin' ye could've done. Stop worryin'.”

He kissed Murphy's knuckles, and Murphy felt a swell of affection then, squeezed his twin close. He let his lips brush over the back of Connor's neck, would pretend it was an accident later, didn't mean anything by it. Connor laid perfectly still, left hand squeezing Murphy's.

They both went to sleep.

 

-

 

Connor's hand hurt like a son of a bitch, of course. When asked by their Ma, they just said Connor had fallen off his bike. ( _“If this is a fuckin' ploy to get me ta buy ye a car, it ain't workin', boys.”_ ) He couldn't box for awhile, obviously, which left them more time for drinking and brushing up on their languages. Maybe some schoolwork, though that always was at the bottom of the list of priorities.

They'd actually been invited to a party as well, at a rich girl's house, whose parents were out of town. It had actually just been Connor that had been invited—they were probably enticed by his mysterious broken hand—but of course, they'd realized that wherever Connor went, Murphy was usually in tow.

“A party, Murph! We haven't been to one of those in ages. Probably be girls there, too.” Connor grinned lecherously.

“Ye gonna see if that broken hand can get ye laid?”

“O'course I am!” he snorted. “What else is a fuckin' broken hand good for except earnin' sympathy points from girls? Ye should try pullin' a girl, Murph, don't think I've ever see ye with one.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Murphy growled. “I've had girls.”

“Yeah? Who? When?”

Murphy flushed bright red. “None of yer fuckin' business, that's who!”

“Are ye still a virgin, Murph?” Connor started laughing. “Oh, my pure, virginal brother dear!”

“Fuck off!” Murphy chucked his pillow.

“Oi! I was only jokin'!” Connor was still chuckling under his breath. “Yer gay, then?”

“Oh my _God_.”

 

-

 

Murphy wasn't feeling jealous—he _wasn't_. He also felt a pang of whatever this feeling was whenever Connor would chat up a girl. It was like he was being left out. He would always sit there stupidly with a drink in his hand and wait for him to be done. He wasn't really interested in chatting up slutty drunk girls anyways.

He was maybe sulking a little bit.

He just kept going into the kitchen and helping himself to whatever liquor was closest. Shots? Why the fuck not. Beer? Why thank you. Whisky? Of course.

Parties. A grand old excuse to get shit-faced.

At least this one was in a beautiful house along the coast. He could hear the ocean just down the street if he went outside. Too loud inside, though, bad pop music—Madonna, maybe—blaring over the record player. Christ Almighty.

More drinks. He nursed a beer as he found his way back into the sitting area, where Connor was attached at the mouth to some girl with big, blonde hair. Clearly occupied, then. Murphy went back to drinking, not really socializing, wandering around the big, old house along the coast.

Murphy was good and drunk on other peoples' alcohol, when he heard shouts coming from one of the sitting rooms. He stumbled over to see what was the matter, and of course there was Connor in a shouting match with some wiry redheaded bloke. “That was _my_ fuckin' girlfriend ye were fuckin' around with!”

“Well, she didn't seem to be sayin' anythin' about _you_ while me hand was up her skirt.”

_Connor, you fucking idiot._

The redhead threw the first punch, and Connor dodged. But it wasn't in any way a fair fight, and the guy kicked up and landed a hit right on Connor's broken hand.

Connor yelped in pain, doubling over to protect his hand. Murphy ran over at that and sucker punched the guy on the side of his head, cursing loudly as he did. Redheaded bloke went down, and Murphy grabbed Connor, dragging him out of the house.

“Fuckin' moron, ye are,” Murphy grumbled, swaying. Didn't realize how drunk he was until he got outside. “Ye a'right?”

“Oh, just dandy, Murph. Peachy keen.” Connor grinned. His left hand rubbed his right carefully. “Fuckin' dirty move, that was. Me poor hand.”

“Conn. M'very drunk.”

“Grand,” Connor snorted.

Murphy leaned against him, throwing an arm over his shoulders, and nuzzling his neck. Connor was so very warm and solid, and everything was starting to spin a bit.

“Should get ye home, I suppose. Can ye ride yer bike?”

“Might be a bit of a challenge.”  
  
“Well, we're gonna try.”

They made it home, with only a couple of spills on Murphy's end. A couple scrapes, probably some bruises, nothing he'd really notice in the morning. Murphy tumbled into his bed, shuffling over a little bit. “C'mere.”

Connor glanced over at him, in the process of undressing. “What, y'afraid of the dark now?”

“Stop bein' a cunt, and come here.”

“Fine,” Connor sighed, and crawled into bed with Murphy. They were facing each other, just a few inches away.

Murphy reached out, brushed his fingers through Connor's hair. It was so soft and thick, he could probably just keep touching it forever, though that may have been the whisky talking. It always did make him a little more touchy-feely. He started running his fingers over Connor's face, clumsily; over his jawline, feeling the beginnings of stubble; over his cheeks, which had almost lost all their baby fat; over his nose, feeling the bump from where he broke it when they were twelve; over his lips—

He stopped. He licked his own lips, wanting nothing more than to just lean forward, and close those few inches. He ran his thumb over Connor's bottom lip, let out a low whine.

“Murphy,” Connor whispered, clasping the hand that was on his face, ever so gently pulling it down. “Ye should stop.”

“Why?” Murphy asked, just trying to scoot a little closer, could feel their noses bump, breath mingle.

“Ye know why.”

“Connor _—_ ”

“No,” he said firmly, gripping the hair at the side of Murphy's head, gently pulling him back. “Go ta sleep, ye drunk fool. We'll talk later.”

Murphy sighed. He turned around, so his back was to his twin, defeated. “No. We won't.”

 

-

 

They didn't talk about it.

Murphy knew they wouldn't. They never did. Murphy had made passes at his brother before, had realized as soon as he hit puberty that he didn't want what everyone else wanted—all he wanted was his brother. He wanted him in a way that was entirely _unholy._ It was fucked up, and of course Connor didn't feel the same way. Why the fuck would he? It was Murphy's problem in Murphy's fucked up little brain.

So they just never talked about it. It was better that way.

Sometimes it just _came out_ though. It was in little touches that Murphy thought he could sneak. He'd caress his fingers over Connor's knuckles, just barely, just enough to brush it off as an accident. He'd bump his shoulders into his brothers' just to feel how solid he was. He'd lean just a little bit more into him when they'd been drinking than normal, pass it off as silly drunkenness.

Of course Connor _knew,_ as well as he could. How could he not? Murphy made himself pretty obvious. He tried, though, tried to keep it squashed down deep inside of himself. Tried to be brotherly and _that was it,_ but it didn't always work out that way. He _tried_ not to get jealous when Connor was fooling around with girls, or when he had girlfriends. They had a particularly nasty fight over one of Connor's more serious girlfriends—Bailey Walsh—that had ended with them refusing to talk to each other for two weeks. That had been the worst of it. Murphy felt halved, emptied, without his twin around.

He wondered sometimes how it was him who ended up as half a person, when Connor seemed so whole.

The thoughts, the wants— _needs—_ persisted, but Murphy had gotten somewhat better at hiding them for the most part. He knew Connor hoped it was only a phase, and Murphy was trying to convince him that maybe it was, so they could just go back to being brothers. It only came out now when Murphy lost a little self control, whether that was from the drinking, or Connor being just too fucking _close_.

The wants were brought by the Devil himself, Murphy knew. It was to test him. To see if he would stay on a righteous path or stray for lust and love.

 _No_ , he'd tell himself. _Love_ was from God. Lust, and the ungodly want of his brother, was not. It was a sin. A mortal sin, the way he felt, and he wouldn't—couldn't—drag Connor down that path with him.

 

-

 

Connor's hand took about six weeks to heal.

By the time he felt good enough to get back to boxing, the cold, snowy dampness that was an Irish winter had subsided, and things were getting warmer and greener again. The sun even poked out through the perpetual cloud cover, giving the hills an orange-yellow glow.

Murphy was relieved. The winters always made him a little stir-crazy, and Ma always made them do double the chores they normally would, seeing as how they were inside more. But with Connor having a broken hand, most of that work seemed to fall on Murphy the past six weeks.

So he was glad to see Connor flexing his hand and clenching it into a fist like it was good as new. He was muttering excited phrases in French and Italian, shadowboxing like Murphy wasn't even there.

“Bit excited about tonight, I take it?” Murphy snickered.

“O'course! It's been too fuckin' long, Murph. And I'm shit broke after taking that little hiatus. So much for moving to America any time soon.”

“Well, just don't pull a fuckin' stupid stunt like that again, and maybe the plan will still be on, ye knob.”

“That's rich, Murph, you callin' _me_ a knob. Yer the biggest knob on this side of the Atlantic.”

“Oi, fuck you!” Murphy huffed, throwing a pencil at his brother's back. “ _Yer_ the knob, and yer French accent is complete shite.”

“Tu me blesses, Murph.” Connor was grinning.

“ _Trop_ terrible.”

They got on their bikes, and rode the thirty minutes down the muddy, sodden road to the same warehouse where Murphy first saw Connor fight. It looked even more crowded than he remembered, with people milling in and out, smoking cigarettes outside, the loud cheers audible every time the door opened. They went in with a slight nod from the guard, a small greeting of “MacManus,” leaving him.

Murphy had a sinking feeling as soon as they entered. He felt on edge, twitchy, like something was wrong was going to _go_ wrong. He didn't like the look of the place this time around, didn't like the _smell_ of it—like old smoke, asphalt and horse shit. It made him uneasy.

“Ye sure ye want ta be doin' this tonight, Conn?” he all but yelled into his brother's ear, maybe just trying to make himself feel better.

“Where's this coming from?” Connor grinned that cheeky fucking grin. “Ye worried I'll be hurt again? Jesus, Murphy, I'll be fine. Done this a million times by now.”

“Lord's name,” Murphy grumbled under his breath. “Just be careful, ye fuckin' idiot.”

He clapped Connor on the back, watched as he disappeared into the crowd. Murphy wondered, agitated, why Connor always was fighting the most massive men. They were always built like trucks, covered in tattoos, usually missing some teeth. Always a good foot taller than his brother, and probably a decade older. Connor liked to fucking show off, of course, and taking on men twice his size, bare knuckled, and usually beating them, was a pretty good way of doing it. Girls fucking _loved it._ They fawned over every little bruise, cut, and scrape, and Connor could never resist embellishing a tale of his own victories.

Murphy was drinking a beer, too quickly, when he heard a roar erupt from the crowd closest to the fight. He whipped his head around, standing on his toes to try and see over everybody, but he wasn't quite tall enough. He let out a growl, shoved his way though everybody, and by the time he was at a place where he could actually fucking _see_ , it was all over.

Big guy was out, on the ground, Connor was bent over, hands on knees, a steady stream of _blood_ dripping from his face.

Murphy ran over, heart in his throat. When Connor saw him, he grinned that stupid fucking grin, tinged with blood. Murphy felt his face get hot, whether from rage or something _else_ he didn't know.

“Ye look like shit.”

“Piss off, Murph,” Connor snorted. His knuckles looked raw, a little bloody, there was a gouge on his cheek seeping blood, but the worst of it was on his temple. Connor's hair was wet with it, staining his hair on that side a deep crimson. Murphy had to remind himself that it was fine, it was _fine_ , head wounds always bled more. “Motherfucker had a ring on. Swears he forgot to take it off. Such a load of shite.”

Murphy gnawed on his lower lip, passed Connor the remainder of his beer.

“Cheers.” He downed the rest. “I need some air. Fuckin' stuffy in here.”

They went out one of the back doors, and leaned against the building, lighting cigarettes in practiced harmony.

“Let me know the truth of it, then. How bad is it?” Connor got right up in Murphy's face, turning his face this way and that, baring his teeth for inspection.

Murphy felt like he couldn't breathe suddenly. “Think he chipped yer tooth.”

“Fuck,” Connor huffed. He was still shirtless, sweaty, fucking _glistening_ under the moonlight.

Murphy grabbed the shirt out of his brother's hand, held it to the still bleeding cut on his temple. “Yer bleedin' all over yerself.”

They were too close. Too fucking close. Murphy just kept holding the shirt against Connor's head, eyes wandering over his face, the hint of stubble starting to come through, blue eyes framed by blond lashes. He swallowed thickly, felt his brain leave his body as he leaned in and just barely brushed their lips together.

Connor froze. Murphy did too, just holding his mouth there. He felt a little braver when Connor didn't move, pressed a little harder—a kiss, a _real_ fucking kiss. His heart was pounding in his chest, like it was trying to escape, burst through his rib cage and fly off. He swiped his tongue over Connor's lower lip, felt them slacken just slightly, and Murphy took that as his cue to fucking _go_.

He turned them around, shoved Connor against the side of the building a little more rough than intended. He tilted his head, tongue rolling over his twin's. His other hand came up and gripped Connor's hair, bracketing that gorgeous fucking face. He pressed their bodies together, hip to chest to mouth, trying to breathe through his nose so he didn't have to stop kissing him—his twin, his brother, _Connor._

“Murphy—”

It was unfair the way Connor said his name, like it was a fucking prayer. Murphy moaned, tugging at the hair on the good side of Connor's head. He disconnected their mouths to press searing kisses along his brother's jaw, his neck, using teeth and tongue, wanting to taste—

“Murphy!”

He stopped, jolted out of his reverie by the harsh utterance that came from his twin. They were both breathing hard, chests heaving, Murphy's hands shaking. He felt _emboldened_ , though. He slid his knee between Connor's legs, felt the hardness there under his jeans. “Ye want this.”

“Fuckin' Christ, Murph—”

Murphy growled and pushed their bodies closer, moving his knee just _slightly_ , feeling Connor's breath stutter. “Ye want this _just_ as much as I do, Conn, stop tryin' ta fuckin' deny it.”

He bit down on the soft flesh where Connor's neck met his collarbone. Murphy felt drunk on it, his brother's skin, his smell, the coppery taste of blood. He was so hard he could barely stand it, he started grinding himself against Connor's hip.

“Fuckin' _stop it_ , Murph!”

Connor shoved Murphy back, hard enough so they were standing a good foot apart.

“What the fuck was that, Murph? What the _fuck?_ Christ Almighty, Murphy,” Connor was babbling, swearing in every language they knew—Russian, Spanish, Italian, his _terrible_ French, ending his tirade in Gaelic.

So Murphy responded in Gaelic, a hushed whisper. “I love you.”

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” Connor breathed out. His hands were raking through his hair anxiously, eyes darting to the ground, the wall, anywhere but Murphy. “I'm going to church.”

“ _Now?_ ” Murphy snorted, incredulous. “It's almost one in the mornin'!”

“Aye, _now_ , Murph.”

Connor was tugging on his shirt, the one still sticky with blood, with jerky motions. He stomped over to the bushes where they had dumped their bikes, grabbed his and got on.

When Murphy went to do the same, Connor stopped, let out a low sound deep in his chest. “Don't ye fuckin' follow me, Murphy. Don't ye fuckin' do it.”

Murphy halted, staring wide-eyed at his brother's back. “Connor—”

“I'll see ye at home.”

And with that, he was gone. Murphy stood and watched as he disappeared into the dark night. He felt something ugly rise in his throat, choking him, tightening its grip on his airway until he was almost gagging. He punched the wall of the warehouse so hard his knuckles split open. He just stood there, trying to breathe, as the blood slipped through his fingers.

 

-

 

Murphy wasn't sure what time Connor got home that night.

It was late—early, maybe?—as the sun was just starting to crack over the horizon and spill into the window of their bedroom when Connor crawled through it. Murphy hadn't slept a wink, the ugly thing still having a grip on his throat. He faced the wall next to his bed, tried not to flinch or move when Connor sat down on the mattress beside him. He just curled in on himself and moved closer to the wall.

“I'm sorry, Murph.”

“Fer what?” Murphy snorted.

Connor laid down next to him, slung an arm over his middle. “Fer bein' an arse. I'm sorry.”

“We still not gonna talk, then?”

Connor sighed, shuffled closer to Murphy, nuzzled the nape of his neck. “I don't know what ta say.”

“How about we start with the fact that ye were fuckin' hard for me, hey, Conn?”

Connor winced behind him. “Can ye just not, Murphy? Please?”

“So I take that as a _no_ , we're not gonna talk about it.”

“It's _wrong_ , Murph. We _can't—”_

“I _know_ it's fuckin' wrong, Conn, but I just—” Murphy growled, grabbed Connor's hand, brought it down to where his cock was hardening in his boxers. “I _need_ ye, fuckin' need ye like I need ta breathe. Always needed ye....”

Connor didn't move his hand. A keening sound escaped Murphy's throat as he bucked against his brother's limp fingers, breath turning ragged. He ground and bucked and rubbed, just wanting a little _relief._ He tried to pretend that Connor was moving that hand, squeezing, even just the tiniest bit. But he _wasn't_ , Murphy knew that, Connor wasn't as fucking sick as he was, rubbing himself off against his brother's wrist.

He came in his boxers, panting, ragged, broken.

“Better?” Connor murmured, gently moving his arm back around Murphy's waist.

“ _No_ ,” Murphy hissed. He felt dirty. He felt _wrong_.

 

-

 

Murphy started to spend less time at home.

After school, he'd bike to the coast, watch the waves crash over the rocky shores. He'd been avoiding Connor, only seeing him at mealtimes with Ma, and in their shared classes. He barely spoke a word to him, feeling awkward every time he spoke, like something was broken between them. He'd fucked it up. He'd fucked _them_ up and now he was just waiting to graduate, waiting for Connor to move to America so at least then there would be an ocean between them.

So Murphy found some comfort in the sea, knowing soon his twin would be sailing across it, would finally be happy to rid himself of his sin. His brother.

Even in the spring, the water was freezing, and Murphy toyed with the idea sometimes of hurling himself off the cliffs and onto the sharp rocks and shockingly cold ocean. He imagined what it would be like—would it be quick and painless, or would he drown, slowly, bleed out from a rock cutting his neck?

He could never do it. He'd been taught at too young an age that suicide was a mortal sin. So was wanting to fuck your brother, but still.

The sea was gray and frothy that day under the thick cloud cover. It would probably rain soon; large, cold droplets typical of the Irish spring. Murphy leaned back against the patch of crab grass he was sitting on, and threw an arm over his eyes. He started going over German verb conjugation, just to distract him from any other invasive thoughts.

He went to church.

He knelt in a pew until his knees hurt. He prayed in Gaelic, mumbled words tumbling out of his lips, praying for strength, asking _why_ , why had he been made the way he was? Was he broken? Why would God allow such a broken thing like himself to wander the Earth?

He didn't cry, but he felt a lump in the pit of his stomach, heavy as a stone, sinking him.

 

-

 

Murphy got into a fight at school. He didn't realize how hard it was being outnumbered in a fight without his brother to back him up. He didn't know what happened—Billy O'Donnel had called him a fag, sneered at him, asking where his fag brother was, and he just sort of snapped. He punched Billy right in his meaty face, and suddenly there were three other guys on him, beating the shit out of him. He tried to fight back, throwing punches and kicks wildly, grabbing at whatever was in reach, but just ended up with a black eye and some pavement scraped into his cheek.

He limped home, feeling a fool, knees bloody, and face throbbing.

Ma hadn't been impressed. She clucked her tongue in the way she did, told him to go clean himself up and wash the dishes. Connor wasn't home yet. He hadn't seen Connor all day.

When Connor did come home—with a fucking _hickey_ on his stupid, perfect throat, wearing a scarf like Murphy wouldn't fucking notice—he cocked his eyebrow at Murphy, but didn't say a word. Murphy felt a rage burn inside of him, a searing jealousy that ripped through his very soul.

Connor kept avoiding his gaze all night, changed into a fucking turtleneck, ate dinner in silence. Murphy hated it. He hated being around someone, his other half, and having them act like he didn't fucking exist.

When Connor tried to sneak out that night, Murphy sat straight up in bed. “Ye off ta see yer fuckin' girlfriend, then?”

“And what's it to you?” Connor's voice was cold as ice.

“Ye'd think it'd be somethin' ye'd _tell_ me about?”

“No, Murphy, it's not. Not with how ye've been actin'. Like yer so fuckin' distant now. Why the fuck would I tell ye about a _girlfriend_ when I knew ye'd react like this?”

Murphy grit his teeth. “Are ye or not?”

Connor sighed. “No, Murph. I'm goin' boxin'.”

Murphy scrubbed a hand over his face. “Connor,” he didn't mean for his voice to break, “don't leave.”

“I can't do this,” Connor muttered. He sat down on Murphy's bed, leveling their gazes. “Murphy, I can't keep doing this.”

Murphy swallowed, feeling his breathing starting to pick up. “I'll stop, Conn, I can—I'll stop, I promise, a'right? We can go back ta how it was—”

The sound Connor made sounded _pained_. He buried his face in his hands, heaving sobs wracked his body. Murphy had no idea what to do.

“Why—why're ye cryin', Conn?” he asked, tongue feeling thick in his mouth.

“Ye think I want it ta be like this, Murph? With ye fuckin' _hatin_ ' me because I can't give ye what ye want? Ye think I don't want it too? Of course I fuckin' do, but it can't be that way, Murphy.” Ugly sobs wracked Connor's body, taking gasping breaths between like he was drowning.

Murphy didn't know what else to do. He wrapped his arms around his brother and held him, held him until the sobbing and the shaking stopped. “I'm sorry, Connor, I'm sorry,” he kept mumbling in every language he could think of, stumbling over words, getting them mixed up in the scatter that was his brain. “Could never hate ye, Conn, I couldn't—”

And suddenly Connor was kissing him, fast and desperate and sad. Murphy held onto him like a life preserver in the middle of a choppy ocean, his eyes screwed shut, afraid it was a dream. Connor pushed him back onto the bed, crawled on top of him, keeping their mouths connected. Murphy wasn't sure when his boxers got taken off, but Connor's _hand_ was on him, stroking reverently like he was something precious. He let out a something akin to a sob, buried his face into his twin's shoulder.

Connor kept stroking, hand dry and calloused, but so fucking _good_. He kept whispering Murphy's name, over and over and over, like it was the only word he knew. Murphy felt Connor through his pants, so fucking hard and wanting, but he just kept stroking, stroking until Murphy was at that edge, but didn't have the words in him to tell his brother to stop.

His orgasm hit him like a punch to the stomach. It was violent, causing his entire body to spasm, toes curl, a strained noise being clawed out of his throat that vaguely sounded like his twin's name.

He fell back on the bed, trembling like he was cold, Connor's mouth on his neck guiding him back down to Earth.

“Connor,” he whispered. “Connor.”

Murphy wrapped his arms around his brother neck, legs around his hips, and flipped them over. His shaking fingers fumbled with the button and fly of Connor's jeans, but eventually got them open, and took his brother's hot, throbbing cock into his hand.

He heard Connor hiss—were his hands cold? He knew something that would be warmer, the idea popping into his head. He took Connor into his mouth, nothing he'd ever done before, but no instructions needed. The sounds his brother was making were enough to encourage him further. He sucked, hard then soft, rolled his tongue, savoring the hot heaviness of Connor on his tongue.

He didn't last long. It couldn't have been more than a couple minutes before Connor was tapping on his cheeks, a warning that just made Murphy suck harder. There was a bitter salty flavor, and he could feel Connor pulsing in his mouth, hear the choked cries of his name. He swallowed because he couldn't think of anything else to do.

They laid together, holding onto each other, fingertips dancing over expanses of flesh like everything was brand new. Maybe it was.

“We're a little bit fucked up, ain't we?” Connor breathed into Murphy's hair.

“Aye. I'd say so.”

Murphy didn't care one bit then.

 


End file.
